


shatter

by halcyonian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, M/M, Violence, Work In Progress, mm i dunno if i should add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonian/pseuds/halcyonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's been a year since dirk lost himself, spreading the pieces all over the surface of the earth<br/>and it feels like decades that you've been waiting for him to come back</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.) fishing

It's been a year, since Dirk's split himself into pieces, tearing his heart and shredding it to bits for the sake of his friends that he knew would do the same for him. 

It's been a year, since the game ended and you were no longer gods but estranged children on the same planet. Unmarred, almost like the past hadn't been changed at all. The same ocean lapping at the same rusted beams that supported the same apartment, the one that stood in the middle of the endless ocean, rising above the drowned city below it. 

He had always been rather selfless. In a literal sense, now.

He's empty, and you know it, from the way his gaze is blank when he looks at you, and he says your name like you're a stranger to him. Even though, he would used to insist that you were him and he was you, and that you were identical. And you'd both reject the idea that you two were the same, twins of each other that mirrored every single action the other made.

His memories of you are gone. And everyone else, really. But everyone tries to make him remember, thinking that triggering  something inside him will make him click, make them say their names like he knew them again, and not like they were heavy and foreign on his tongue, a chore to say, and even more of a burden to remember. They visit him, smiles plastered on their faces, waiting for something that you think will never happen. It's been so long, and you don't think that anything will come back to him.

You both sit outside, legs dangling over the edge of the metallic beam. He has the fishing pole in hand, and you're tossing the leftover guts to the gulls that swoop in and snatch those little tidbits up, white streaks in a blue, blue sky, taking care to never bite the hand that fed them. The blue here never seemed to end, stretching from horizon to horizon, broken by nothing but the rising and setting of the sun, and the occasional storms that overtook the ocean, causing bright rifts in the sky, and rolling thrums of thunder. 

Your hands glisten a little from the offal that you had been busy tossing at the seabirds, and you're just close enough to douse your hands into the ocean, the cool water pulsing around your dirtied hands, turning purple for a moment before it's all washed away. It's silent, in a strange way, despite the foaming of the waves, and the screeching of the birds overhead. Dirk pulls the line back, and hooks another piece of fish gut to it, before tossing it back out to sea, the line glimmering in the sunlight.

You reach again for the fish guts, before a hand grabs your wrist, warm and familiar. You turn to look at him, but he doesn't look back at you as he lets go, eyes focused on the buoy bobbing in front of him, red never dipping too far under the surface. He speaks, and he doesn't sound like himself, but then again, he hardly did these days. "Stop feeding the gulls. You're wasting bait." 

"Perhaps, I'm thinking of catching one of those gulls for dinner. Bird would be substantially better than fish." You say, turning your gaze away from him, before snatching another piece before the human could stop you and tossing it back out to sea. A flurry of birds descend on the piece of flesh that you had thrown, screeches growing louder until one emerged victorious from the blizzard of feathers, gulping down its prize. 

He turns to you, finally, indignant, annoyance flashing across his face and those amber eyes of his finally lit up with something, and not empty or cast away from you. He's always been fond of those seagulls, despite how they'd decide to decorate everything with their shit and feathers. Once you had been granted a body, you had taken up the hobby of collecting said feathers, your collection ranging from primaries to bits of down and everything in between. 

He used to tell you that it was a useless hobby, and it was frankly gross. You'd joke that it was for him to build you a pair of wings, like Icarus's, to allow you to soar through the heavens and feel the wind through your hair and kiss your skin. He had laughed at you then, and told you that it'd never be within the realm of possibility. You had said that you could dream. 

"The birds aren't for eating. You know that, and yet, you keep on insisting on eating them. Like you want to piss me off. You're probably trying to do that, aren't you?" He asks. You just shrug, taking your time to think before you answer. "I just thought it'd be a better course of action. That's all. There's a nintey nine percent chance that they're better sustenance than the fish you live off of." 

Dirk just presses his lips together into a thin line, starting to ignore you again. He's been thinking that you've been getting more and more nonsensical each passing day. His thoughts are interrupted as the pole gives a hard jerk, and he starts to fight the fish on the other end of the line, tugging and tugging and tugging, until it flies out of the water, flashing silver and white in the sun. 

He pretends that the conversation that you two just had didn't happen, as he removes the hook from the fish's mouth and starts scaling the side of the apartment again, climbing back in through an open window. He beckoned for you to follow at first, polite and out of character, before abandoning you at the edge of the ocean. You only bothered him to remind him of what you two used to have, a constant battle of wit and jest, nothing jeering and serious. But Dirk's forgotten that. 

And you guess you are just like the others. Trying to make him remember you, remember himself, waiting for that bite that would never come. You sit there until the sunset begins to dye the horizon a rusty red, and you feet were wet with spray, before you go back inside, scaling the same beams, and hopping in through the same window, and returning to the same house, and to a stranger that looked just like Dirk. And everything was the same. 

 


	2. ii. static

The sky was dim, and the TV was on. You were washing up the dishes, up to your elbows in soapy foam and water, as you scrubbed away at the plates and glasses that had been piled up in the sink since morning. The screen buzzes as Dirk sleeps on the sofa in the living room, the channel switched to static and garbled speech. You continue scrubbing. 

Plates and glasses clink onto the drying rack, and water fraught with iridescent bubbles swirls down the drain. You had agreed to doing the chores tonight, like you did every night except Sunday. 

You decide that it's time to stop staring pointlessly out the window and go check on Dirk. 

He had now seemed to make a habit of sleeping in front of the buzzing television now; apparently, the white noise did wonders for him, and killed off any dreams that he might have. 

Though, you wished upon him nightmares. 

Nightmares of his past, so he could remember the god that he was, the battles that he had fought, the people that he had cared for so fiercely that he would die in their stead. Terrors that would leave him shaking and dry mouthed when he woke up, anything but that shell that slept in front of you. 

You wanted to wake him from his sleep. Tell him to get off the couch and stop listening to static in his slumber. But all you do is drape a blanket over him and turn off the television, sitting by him until dawn fades to red on the horizon, slats of bloodied light pushing in through the spaces between the blinds. 

And you wait for the prince to wake. 


End file.
